


Her Superpower is "People"

by SecretReyloStan



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Ben Solo Needs A Hug, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Hope you like parentheses, Internal Monologue, Modern AU, One Shot, Reylo - Freeform, Smiling Kink, Why do you swear so much Ben Solo?, potty mouth, why not?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 14:04:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17204741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretReyloStan/pseuds/SecretReyloStan
Summary: Loosely based on the Ben Solo from The North Shore by strawberrycupcake_huckleberrypie, which you can (and should) readHERE!Ben Solo is an actor... a famous one... unfortunately. He's also angsty, kind of neurotic, anxious and self-effacing. He's having a drink at one of the few places he can still go and (mostly) be left alone.In walks Rey, who's a goddamn delight.





	Her Superpower is "People"

**Author's Note:**

> Rated Mature for foul language, and a reference to oral sex and getting a boner. teehee. Also it's beef carpaccio, but Ben doesn't know that.
> 
> Unbeta'd sorry. I can't seem to pick a tense. Also, hope you like parentheses.

 

I had started going to Asandro’s often after my divorce. I don’t know how I ended up there the first time, or what compelled me to go back, but at some point, it became the only public place in my life that felt comfortable. I could sit at the bar and be left in relative peace (there is no peace for me really, not anymore), drink a couple neat whiskeys and have a decent meal. I tipped generously (it was the least I could do) and was treated well. No one bothers me there. Not really. It was enough.

I couldn’t tell you how often I went, but whenever I was in New York (which seemed to be less and less these days) it’s where I went. Alone. It was lovely.

The bar was a decent length and I always sat at the short end of it, back to the door. There was a mirror along the wall behind the liquor shelves, but where I sat, I couldn't see it. (Thank god. I spend too much time in front of mirrors, and I'm so fucking sick of my face.)

The light from a red neon sign that displayed the name of the place, “Asandro’s,” reflected onto the shiny, dark walnut bar. There was always some sort of sport playing on the TV that I never cared about. It would get busy sometimes but not packed. It was old, kind of dirty. I loved it there.

It was an autumn evening, nondescript. A Thursday (I never went on the weekends, too crowded. Too many people noticing me). She came in after I did, in a stylish fall coat, the kind that went to the knees. It was early, six or so, so the place was still pretty empty. Her hair was up in a messy bun, but she didn’t look messy. Not at all.

She placed herself a respectable distance from me, near the center of the bar. She took off her coat, hanging it behind her chair and sat down. She played with something underneath the bar for a moment, as she smiled at the bartender.

She was pretty. She was really, really  _pretty_. There is not a better way to describe her.

Some women you look at and never think of again. Not that they’re ugly or anything, they just don’t stand out.

Some women, the women I work with largely, are fucking gorgeous or beautiful, stunning… adjectives like these. I have learned over the years, though, that the prettier the package the worse the present, if you know what I mean. Awful humans hidden under beautiful faces.

Or, and this is the worst (for me, anyway), some women look amazing until they take their makeup off, and suddenly, it’s like looking at a whole different person. Fake everything - fake hair, fake tans, fake eyelashes, fake lips - fuck, fake teeth! Nothing real. And maybe without makeup they would have been fine, but after all that fakery, the fraud… their real faces just look strange. These are the worst types of faces. (Again, only my opinion. And who the fuck am I anyway? Weird-ass looking piece of shit, if you really want to know.)

But this girl. Her face was so... pretty. Seemed like she had minimal makeup on, if any. But she had the kind of face that you noticed, that you looked at twice. And then again, a few moments later, when you’re sure she’s forgotten that you looked at her before, just to make sure you saw it right.

A round face, open and symmetrical. As she settled in, she pulled out the bun that had been holding her light brown hair and it fell - perfectly - in gentle waves around her face. She had big, Disney-princess eyes that squinted when she smiled. Which you would notice right away, because she smiled right away, and often. And the smile… well that was what sold you on the whole package. A megawatt smile. Nice teeth, sure, no spaces (I noticed this because my teeth are a spacey mess. Too big a mouth for too small teeth.) But her teeth weren’t too small, nor too big. Goldilocks teeth.

But the smile itself, it lit up her whole face. It really felt like if she wasn’t smiling, a light was off, but then that smile came and turned it on. Could probably entertain a baby for hours, just smiling then not smiling (not that I know what entertains babies… I’d also be a terrible fucking father).

So Pretty Girl settles down at her space at the bar. The bartender greets her warmly. I’ve known the guy long enough now to know how he greets pretty girls, which is definitely different from how he greets me. However, she seems to throw him for a bit of a loop, because when that warm friendly face of hers breaks out into that megawatt smile, his voice timbre raises a little bit. Like he’s surprised when she says hello.

“What can I get for you?”

She scans the shelves of liquor bottles quickly.

“This is kind of embarrassing, but do you have… oh yes, there it is. I’d like a Southern Comfort Manhattan. On the rocks, please.” Her response is confident, like she’s ordered a thousand of these. Also like she has gotten some shit before for ordering Southern Comfort, but doesn’t give a fuck what you think, despite her initial self-deprecation. (I know a lot about self-deprecation. It’s what I live on.)  

The bartender tells her, “Coming right up.”

“Thank you. May I have a menu too, please?”

Her manners would be adorable if she was five, but she’s not. So, instead they seem classy. High-brow. A high-class dame ordering a fucking Southern Comfort Manhattan. On the rocks. (Is she for real?)

“Sure thing, you waiting on someone?”

“Nope. Just me,” she smiles at him again, and he smiles back while handing her one menu. (Thank you bartender, for your impeccable service and excellent asking of questions. I’ll tip you another $20 for that.)

I can tell she does not in any way feel bad about being alone. In fact, by the looks of that smile, she’s happy to be. Which is good to remember, even though I can’t take my fucking eyes off her. It's like she’s the most popular girl in school and I’m still just a gawky, skinny tool-box of a douche kid. (I’m not so skinny anymore. Still a tool, though. I say the dumbest shit.) Which is why I resolve right then to not say anything to her. No matter what.

Not that it matters though, because here’s the thing: As she looks over the menu, I realize she hasn’t looked at me once. It's not that I’m vain like that or anything. (Oh fuck that, I’m vain as shit. I’m totally vain, I have to be. It’s my fucking job. And also, because I’m vain anyway. I’d still be vain if I was working at a gas station, because I’m an asshole like that).

It’s just... at this point in my life, everyone looks at me. For obvious reasons and some not so obvious. I’m huge. I’m weird looking. I’m famous. People always fucking look at me, even when all I want to do is disappear.

But not this girl. This woman, really - I should be more respectful. Because she's clearly no girl, despite her young looking face.  She calmly asked the bartender about specials, which he recited for her clumsily. People don’t often ask about specials at the bar.

“Wahoo?” she said, incredulously. “I haven’t had wahoo in a long time."

“Yeah, it’s a fish, right?”

“Yes, a white fish, like a Mahi-Mahi, I guess. They also call it 'ono', which in Hawaiian means ‘delicious',” she told him, keeping her eyes on the menu.

“Oh, really?” The bartender is impressed with Pretty Girl, and so am I.

“This doesn’t strike me as a wahoo kind of place,” she concluded, flirtatiously raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, new chef, new ideas. Weird food.”

She laughed. (Now isn’t that an interesting sound?) I stared down at the bar and just listened to her laugh for a moment. She had a great laugh.

“Well, it is New York,” she replied as she looked up from the menu. “Okay, I’m ready, if you are?”

Of course he’s ready. She ordered three courses. This girl - woman - was clearly a fucking badass. Beef car-potch-eeo or something sounding like that. The wahoo, whatever that was. And she wanted to know if she could get a little salad, “Just, like, on the side, some mixed greens or something?”

The bartender told her it wouldn’t be a problem.

“Awesome,” she replied, smiling again. Always smiling, but never forced. (Who says ‘awesome’ any more? I need to stop watching this girl.)

“Can I have a name for the tab?”

“Rey. R-E-Y.”

(Are you serious? A pretty girl with a pretty name. Fucking hell.)

The bartender walked away to put in her order and she leaned back comfortably in her chair. She tilted her head up to look at the TV near the ceiling and crossed her arms. I took note that she had no book, no magazine. No phone out. Just sitting, not a care in the world. Now, I thought. Now is when she was going to look at me.

But she didn’t. She just sat there, and sipped her drink once the bartender brought it. It earned him another smile and more self-depreciating humor.

“I know, it’s like, the Shirley Temple of cocktails, but I don’t care.” She rolled her eyes. It was cute.

 

(At this point, I'd like to mention that my divorce left me a complete mess. I have zero interest in dating, women, any of the bullshit. I can’t even imagine trying to figure out how I would navigate that awful terrain. I have completely embraced that I will die alone, and that is fine.

Which is why I at this point - after the cute, self-effacing but still “I don’t give a shit” eye roll - I vowed to stop paying attention to Pretty Girl Rey.)

 

So I do. Basically. Here’s what I _do_ notice, however: she doesn’t need a book or magazine, or me, frankly, because everyone talks to her. Everyone. The bar fills up with drinkers and people waiting for tables. They talk to her. The bartender, of course, talks to her. Servers, people stopping in for a drink on the way home from work, the couple out for their 36th anniversary (fuck them), they all talk to her. And she talked to every single one.

Her face was like a mirror of whoever she was speaking with; like an infant, she mimicked what she saw on the faces of those with whom she spoke. But not in a weird or a mocking way, more like a “I see you, I hear you, I’m with you,” sort of way. It made people feel comfortable. Or, at least, made them feel _something_ good, because every person who talked to her walked away from her smiling. Genuinely smiling.

“People” was definitely her superpower.

She made everyone laugh. She seemed interested in what they said. Sometime she looked conspiratorial, like she was telling them secrets. She never stopped, continuing even in between bites as her courses came and went (people too rude to see she was trying to eat), even as she asked for a wine list, when she switched to Cabernet. Never made anyone feel shitty, or like they were bothering her.

Some people occasionally came up to me during the evening, but I am not as welcoming. Nowhere near it. Always want a picture, an autograph. The movies, the TV show, blablabla. They want to talk to me because of who I am.

But the people who talk to her, without invitation, it’s like they just _want_ to talk to her. It’s the face I bet. Those big eyes. The smile. She’s nice. A nice, pretty girl. Named Rey.

The night winds down. I break my own rule and get a fourth Johnny Walker Black and a little food. The woman has had two glasses of Cab in addition to her Manhattan, but is not too bad. A little giggly maybe, but she’s been laughing all night.

It’s back to just the two of us, and a couple old guys at the other end. She had to shift seats once or twice to accommodate others at the bar, something she didn’t seem to mind at all. They always helped her with her coat. She still took no note of me, even though she was closer.

She asked the bartender for a dessert menu, with a look that let him know she knew she was being bad. Women are so dumb with that shit, but with her, it’s more like she’s being ridiculous because she’s already had so much. She’s full, she claimed, but she’ll still look.

“There’s always room for dessert,” she said.

She ordered something, god love her. She asked the bartender if they have espresso, and he told her they do. (She’s a real princess, this one.)

I was almost done with what would have to be my last whiskey. I could drink the whole bottle, but that would be embarrassing. I had gestured to the bartender for my check, when a server came out with her dessert. I almost laughed out loud.

It was huge. A massive, whipped, ice creamy, banana, syrupy mess of a thing. Pretty Girl’s mouth dropped in shock.

“Are you serious?” she said to the waitress, laughing. The bartender moved away from her to get a spoon and napkins as I watched her with the dessert. She blushed a little in embarrassment and then looked at me.

 

Looked _hard, right_ at me.

 

As if she’d been looking at me all night.

As if she knew I was looking at her right _then_ , because she knew I had been looking at her _all night_.

 

She bit her lips and raised an eyebrow.

“I think I’m in over my head,” she said to me.

As if we’d been talking all night.

I laughed a little (god, I’m such an asshole).

“Maybe,” I concurred, like an asshole, because I am such a fucking asshole.

 She smiled and laughed too. (What a difference when the smile is aimed directly _at_ you, holy shit.)

 “Think you can help me out?” she inquired.

 

(And I made the stupidest goddamn face known to man, I’m sure of it, because at that moment, I definitely thought about eating her out. Unintentional, that thought was, and I’m sorry Pretty Girl, I couldn’t stop it. That being said, yes, I would love to help you out, by licking your pussy until you orgasm. What a fuckhead I am.)

 

“Uh, I don’t know…” (Why can’t I speak intelligently without having the words already written for me?)

She gives me this semi-disappointed, half-smile, half-grimace face. “Really?”

(She’s wondering, Has she made the wrong decision, reaching out to me? I know it. I’m fucking it up.)

Thankfully, because she is clearly the most confident woman I’ve ever met, she saves me.

“Come on…” and she nudged a spoon my way. And smiled.

I slid to sit another stool over, at the corner, and so did she. It was somehow more intimate than if we were sitting right next to each other. The bartender brings another spoon because she indicated that we’re going to share, and I can tell, because he knows me, that he is in shock and hiding it.

She thanked him sweetly for the spoon. Her wine glass was empty.

“Okay,” she said, “so this is a little complicated. But can I have a double espresso with a shot of Frangelico, neat. Just, on the side?” Holy shit, who is this woman?

“That’s not that complicated,” the bartender flirted. He looked at me. “Another whiskey?” That would be my fifth and that would be bad. 

“No, thanks Poe, but…” (Oh, what the hell?) “I’ll have one of... those. With the shot, and stuff.” (I’ll have what she’s having, is that really what I said? What is the fucking matter with me??)

“It sounds good,” I told her. She nodded.

“You won’t regret it,” she promised me, in between bites. I was confident that she was right.

“I’m Rey,” she said.

“I know,” I replied, awkwardly, because I am awkward as fuck, all the time. Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “I heard you… before... “ I tried to explain. “I’m Ben.”

She smirked, looked down and nodded her head a little. When she looked back up at me her eyes were sparkling. Close up I noticed they were light-colored, and fucking beautiful. This whole time I thought her smile was the best part, but I was not right.

“Hi Ben,” she said quietly.

“Hi Rey.”

It felt like fucking coming _home_.

 

We talked forever. Not literally, obviously. But non-stop, easily, all through dessert, and the coffee, and then she got a _port_ (because she is so fucking fancy, I can’t even believe it) and I got more food and a beer (because I am a big, dumb animal) and she made me laugh, which was embarrassing, and I made her laugh, which was better.

She told me her eyes were hazel, when I asked. The red light made it hard to tell, I told her, but really I just wanted an excuse to stare at them.

“Yeah, I guess they are hazel,” I said, forgetting to breathe for a second. Real fucking smooth.

“Yup,” she nodded up at me, also seeming a little out of breath. Good. She’s not so smooth either.

We smiled at each other.

Then I heard it. A phone.

“Oh!” She reached under the bar and pulled out like a wallet-on-a-string thing with keys on it, on one of those mountain climber clips. A little thing, which was cool, I thought. Not some dumb big purse, but also not some dumb little purse. Seemed... functional. (Why was I even having an opinion about purses?)

“Where _was_ that?” I asked her, somewhat flirtatiously. She laughed, because she’s nice.

“There are hooks under here!”

“Really?” I ducked my head, and took this opportunity to look under the bar at her. She was wearing a pencil skirt and patent leather pumps, and had skinny crossed legs with great calves… shit.

“So there are. Weird. I didn’t know that.”

She had one of those old slider phones, not a smart phone.

“Wow…” I said, eloquently, like a real fucking gent.

“Oh, yeah,” she said, not embarrassed. “People always make fun of me. But I’m just trying to stay smarter than my phone, you know?”

“Makes sense.” (I fucking hate my phone.)

“Plus I could throw this thing across the room right now, put it back together and it would still work fine.”

“I believe it.” (I also fucking hate myself.)

“And it’s only $25 a month. Unlimited talk and text,” she shook her head a little bit and made her voice sound like an announcer. She was blushing a little. She was so freaking cute, she might actually be kind of a dork, is that possible?

“My friend is done with rehearsal. I’ve gotta jet…” She looked a little crestfallen, but asked the bartender for her check. I told him to put it on my tab.

“No way!” she protested, all lady-like. “I got a ton of stuff.”

I gave her a look like, please, give me a break.

“Don’t you know who I am? Don’t worry about it.”

Almost too late I realized how shitty that sounded.

“Sorry, that sounded really shitty. I’m sorry. But no, seriously. My tab.” She made to argue one more time. “Please. I want to.” (I give her my best movie star, smoldering face. Because, again, I’m a tool-box.)

She sighed in defeat. But she’s clever, this girl.

“But, if you pay then that’s sort of like a date, and I didn’t know we were on a date.”

My mouth dropped and I almost started stuttering like a moron, but she continued, “I wouldn’t have made plans tonight if I knew I’d be on a date.” She looked down, coyly, sort of. She’s ultimately too genuine to actually be coy. “And I wouldn’t have just worn my work clothes, you know?” (She wears those pumps to work?)

I realized I didn’t know what she did. “Can I ask you something?”

“I would say something lame like ‘You just did,' but that would be lame, so I won’t.” She said, smiling at me. She was standing now and I realized she was shorter than I thought.

“Do you? Know who I am?” I ask, kind of already knowing the answer and also not wanting an answer, but I’m an idiot.

She smiled a little and looked down.

“I know your name. And I know what you _do_. Like, for work.” She looked back up at me, beguilingly. Like a Cheshire fucking cat, but one you want to make out with. “But, no, I don’t know who you _are,_ Ben Solo.”

My heart burst a little.

“People make assumptions about me based on what I do, so I try not to do that to other people,” she said, and I was afraid for a moment that she was a stripper. Because I’m an idiot.

“What do you do? I never asked…”

“I’m a school librarian.”

My cock jumped a little, like a fucking teenager. More so than it would have if she actually was a stripper, truth be told.

“A... librarian?” I asked, eyes blinking involuntarily as I tried to think of anything else other than that moment earlier when she put her hair down and shook it out, and her doing that again but with glasses and in her bra… (What face was I making right then? I can only imagine.)

She laughed.

“I gotta go,” she was looking at me, waiting, but I didn’t know what to say. (So I said something real dumb, no surprise.)

“I have to confess, I was watching you. Tonight. You’re kind of... fantastic. With people, I mean." She smiled. (I don’t know why, she was probably disgusted by the fact that I called her _fantastic_ like some creepy Hollywood rapist or Donald fucking Trump. Or that I was _watching_ her. CHRIST. She should be running.)

“I knew you were. Watching.” (Fuck.)

“I was that obvious, huh? Makes sense-”

“No.” She shook her head. She grabbed my hand and dragged me down a couple bar stools. She _was_ short, li'l shorty. She sat me down at the stool where she had been sitting and came up behind me. She pointed to a spot on mirror, to the left.

“Look there.”

I laughed. “Oh.”

The seat where I’d been was reflected in the window, right into the mirror. Clearly.

She could see me the whole time, and I didn’t know.

“I am a such a fucking asshole.”

She laughed.

She took one more breath and put on her coat. She looked a little disappointed again, but she still smiled.

“It was nice to meet you, Ben.” She held out her hand, like a real class act. I took it and shook. She had a great grip.

“You too, Rey.” I looked at her hazel eyes again, now much clearer, the way the light was hitting them. Damn they were beautiful.

“Thank you for dinner,” she said finally and walked past me to leave.

And I sat there like a fucking chump, cursing myself and my ineptitude.

 

Then I noticed her wallet thing was still hanging on the hook under the bar. I moved quickly and grabbed it, following her out of the restaurant. Maybe I could find her, she would definitely need this…

I slammed into her coming back in as I was walking out. I almost knocked her over (because I’m such a fucking giant.) I grabbed her shoulders to steady her and she laughed.

“I’m sorry!” she said.

“No, _I’m_ sorry - I was - are you okay?”

She was still laughing a little. “Oh my goodness, yes. I’m fine, though definitely a little drunk. I forgot my wallet.”

I held it up like it was a dead animal or something. (I’m an idiot.)

“I know. I was coming to find you.”

We smiled.

“Oh. Thanks.”  

Awkward seconds tick by. (Ask her out Solo, just do it. Don’t be such a fucking loser!)

I cleared my throat.

“Also, um…” Her Disney-princess eyes widened in anticipation of whatever fucking gem was about to come out of my mouth.

“What about, like, a real date?” I winced at how pathetic I sounded. (God, I suck.)

She pointed at herself and mouthed, soundlessly, “With me?”

I let out a strangled breath.

“Yes.”

She pointed at me and mouthed, “And you?”

I laughed a little.

“Yes.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and smirked.

“I mean, like one where you don’t have plans after, and stuff, and we could, like, sit at a table...” (What are you even saying, you moron? You have a fucking Golden Globe, you should be better than this!)

“But I like to sit at the bar,” she replied. "Never know who you're going to meet." Her smile grew and she winked. (She’s gotta be kidding me with that wink.)

“I do too, actually. We could sit at a bar, too, if you want. If you’d like, or prefer, or whatever.” I cleared my throat again. “Whatever you want.”

“Do you like it here?” she asked, nodding towards Asandro’s.

“Um, yes. But we don’t have to come here-”

She shrugged. “I liked it here, too.” She smiled, thank god. “We could meet here? Like, Sunday night or something?”

My shoulders visibly relaxed. This girl is very smart, perceptive. 

“Yes, we could do that. Let’s do that. Yeah?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

She smiled.

 


End file.
